


Misdirection and Wonder: Magic For Beginners

by Omi_Ohmy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter may be the one who dabbles in Muggle Magic, but it’s Draco who leaves him mystified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misdirection and Wonder: Magic For Beginners

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Magic Tricks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/783359) by [talithan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talithan/pseuds/talithan). 



> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. The original fic, _Magic Tricks,_ is the work of **talithan**.
> 
>  **Author's notes** : Dear Talithan, it was a real delight to be assigned you and to get to remix one of your fics, especially one I enjoyed reading so much the first time around.
> 
> Much of Harry and Draco’s dialogue is taken from _Magic Tricks_ , word for word. I wish I could claim any credit for the wonderful way Harry and Draco talk to each other, but it’s all Talithan’s. I made up the magic quotes peppered throughout this fic, but based them on the words and advice of many real Muggle magicians from around the world (thank you, internet).
> 
> Finally, thank you to my lovely betas (all three of them!) who stepped up at the last minute so I could get this in on time, and thank you to the wonderful mods for running this whole shebang so well.

_Magic is not found in props or a pack of cards: you carry magic around with you, every day._ You _make the magic._

Harry liked to focus on one or two faces in the crowd. One night it would be a girl, sitting up straight in her seat as she attempted to unravel the secrets to his magic. Another night, a man with a beard, his face heavy with a frown then opening with childish delight as Harry Conjured a bunch of flowers.

On this particular night, Harry first noticed a glint of pale gold, a shockingly familiar head of hair. He blinked into the stage lights: surely he was mistaken. But then he saw the formal coat, Slytherin-green pointed collar amongst a sea of grey and black. He noticed high cheekbones and a sharp gaze. His skin prickled, and between spinning balls above his head and swirling smoke around a volunteer, Harry’s gaze flicked again and again to the unmistakeably straight-backed figure of Draco Malfoy. 

Harry’s fingers trembled in alarm, and he almost dropped the fake black-and-white wand in his hands. Hoping that the fumble had gone unseen, he continued with his act. The magic was simple, and the routine familiar enough that Harry could lose himself in thought and speculation. Why was Malfoy here? Was that really him? Had he been sent to spy on Harry? Would his magic act be in the _Prophet_ tomorrow? Harry took a steadying breath; he had to ignore Malfoy and get to the end of his act.

After the show, Harry waited for the Ministry owl, or the reporters from the _Prophet_ , or even the taunting laugh of his old classmate. But nothing happened. No one approached him, and Malfoy disappeared into the night.

~*~

Harry looked out for Malfoy the next night, his stomach twisted in anxiety, and then every night after that; but he didn’t see him. Nor did he see the red of Aurors or the mismatched Muggle clothes of a Ministry official burst into his dressing room to arrest him. But it didn’t stop Harry worrying, about why Malfoy had come and what he was going to do next.

Harry wondered what Malfoy had thought of the show, whether he’d enjoyed it or been bored. Most of all, though, Harry questioned why Malfoy hadn’t yet reported him.

~*~

As Thursday night came around again, Harry scanned the crowd, a stronger-than-normal tingle of nervous excitement filling his belly. At this time the week before, Malfoy had sat in the audience and stared at Harry throughout his act. Some part of Harry almost expected to see his pointy paleness again.. 

The tingle faded as he saw no white-blond hair amongst the crowd, yet he remained distracted throughout the first part of his show. After very nearly Conjuring a flock of birds rather than flowers, Harry realised he did need to pay at least a little attention to what he was doing.

Maybe it was the sense of unfinished business, but Harry was disappointed. Filling a glass with water from his wand, then Vanishing the water as he tipped the glass over the head of a volunteer, he resisted the urge to let the water pour all over the short man sitting with a nervous smile. As the man walked back to his seat, Harry noticed a flash of green from amongst the crowd. He thought instantly of Malfoy’s fine green coat. The man wearing it had sandy hair, a slightly broader nose… yet familiar high cheekbones: it was Malfoy again, it had to be. And he was terrible at disguise.

The tingle returned, sweeping over Harry’s skin and settling in his gut again. Malfoy was back. Harry struggled to focus on his act again. His top lip beaded with sweat – despite the cold of the hall – as he concentrated on making his magic look like non-magic. He also tried hard to ignore the knot of fear and… excitement, at Malfoy’s reappearance. In disguise, no less.

Harry waited, again, after the show, half expecting some form of confrontation, if not official, then at least personal. The quiet of his tiny changing room back stage, with the flaking paint and defunct radiators, seemed even more pronounced than normal after the buzz of the show. No Malfoy, and no explanation… Harry had no idea what was going on.

~*~

A few days later, sitting beside a roaring fire with Hermione, Harry brooded about his mysterious spy.

“—and Luna has had some great insights,” Hermione said.

“Hmm?” Harry had lost track of what Hermione was talking about. Something about revising the definitions of magical creatures.

Hermione sighed. “You’re as bad as Ron. You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?”

Harry gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I– something strange happened recently.”

“Strange?”

“Remember Malfoy?”

Hermione snorted. “No one could forget him.” She paused. “Although no one’s seen him for a while.”

“I have. He… er, he’s been to my magic show.”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione nearly spilled her tea as she half-jumped in alarm. “Has he reported you? I never thought it was a good idea, you doing magic—”

“No, he hasn’t.” Harry said. “I haven’t heard a word, from anyone. Malfoy included.”

“Don’t assume nothing will happen. These things might take a few days—”

“He’s been twice. Two Thursdays in a row.”

“Twice?” Hermione asked.

“Oh yes,” Harry said. “The second time, he charmed his hair darker and freckles on his skin, but it was obviously him.”

She put down her tea and looked at Harry thoughtfully. “How could you tell?”

“Shape of his face. And his bloody coat – it’s a bit distinctive.”

“Wizard at sea amongst the Muggles?”

“No, not that.” Harry thought back to the way Malfoy managed to stand out, even though he blended into the crowd in all other ways. “He dressed like a Muggle. It’s only that his coat was green and most of the others aren’t. It’s very distinctive.”

“What do you think he’s doing there?”

“I don’t know. He looked… bored, sometimes, and yet sometimes he looked totally transfixed. And it’s not as though he hasn’t see someone Conjure flowers before.”

“It’s probably _you_ he was watching, you know.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

“There’s a statue of you in Diagon Alley that says differently.”

Harry laughed. “I don’t think that Malfoy gives a toss about any of that.”

“No? I suppose it was always a bit more personal with the two of you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Harry said. “There wasn’t anything personal between us.” Even as he said the words, he knew they were a lie. Malfoy had been a thorn in Harry’s side for years; right up until Harry’d looked into his eyes and seen nothing but fear. In a bathroom, on a broom, at a trial. And now… now he wasn’t sure what he thought about Malfoy.

~*~

_One of the basic foundations of a successful magic trick is misdirection. Hide your true actions, and lead your audience down another path entirely._

Harry’s heart beat alarmingly fast as he caught sight of Malfoy in his sandy-haired disguise on the third Thursday. Malfoy appeared to be alone, and spent the entirety of the show staring at Harry with a mix of curiosity and disdain on his face. Nervous energy drove Harry’s act – he was sure he spoke too fast – but still Malfoy did nothing more than watch.

~*~

Harry’s friends were no help, either in finding out what Malfoy was up to, or in understanding how Harry felt about his presence at the shows.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Ron said, stretching out by the fire. “But I’ll let you know if I do.”

“You know that I think it’s asking for trouble, you performing magic in front of Muggles.” Hermione nudged Ron over, and settled on the sofa beside him. 

“None of them _know_ it’s magic.” Harry had this argument with Hermione every now and then. She really didn’t approve, but Harry had long since decided that the thrill of performing magic outweighed any risk. He found it hard to explain just how wonderful it felt, to see that light of wonder in their eyes. “No one’s ever noticed.”

“Except now Malfoy’s seen your show. He’s always loved getting you in trouble.”

“I made some enquiries about Malfoy.” Ron frowned. “Most people had assumed he’d moved abroad.”

“He was still as pasty as ever. Even his glamours can’t hide it.”

“Maybe he’s been in a cold country. Norway, or somewhere.”

“And maybe he’s gone back. Honestly, you were lucky, Harry, not to have this all blow up in your face. And I still say that you have to have some kind of a back-up plan. What if a Muggle magician sees your show and realises that you aren’t doing tricks?”

“I’ve thought of that,” Harry said. He pulled a Sickle from his pocket. “I’ve been practising.” He held the coin up in the air, twirling it between his fingers. With a final flourish it disappeared, and he leant forward and pulled it from Hermione’s ear.

A smile threatened to break through Hermione’s disapproving frown, and she shook her head before laughing softly. “That was terrible, Harry. I saw you palm the coin.”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve got to practise. And what else am I going to do with my time?”

~*~

A sharp wind whistled outside the theatre on the fourth Thursday that Malfoy appeared, face disguised again and green collar turned up. Judging by the breeze in the auditorium, some of the wind had whistled its way in, too.

Harry made his movements overly dramatic in an attempt to ward away the chill. As he swept his arms through the air and worked hard to make his audience believe that his actual magic was mere magical trickery, his thoughts returned to the one person he couldn’t look at.

Malfoy.

His thoughts had been circling around Malfoy for days – weeks – now. Hermione hadn’t been much help, and Harry had to spend considerable effort to finish his show without any mistakes. Somehow, Malfoy’s presence made Harry feel like a fumbling first-year again.

Harry spent the week formulating wild theories to explain Malfoy’s continuing presence at his show for a fourth Thursday running. He wasted one afternoon considering the fantastically improbable idea that this was some form of seduction from afar. Malfoy’s gaze was always so focused and intense. Why turn up, week after week, and stare for an hour but say nothing? Harry struggled, though, to imagine Malfoy with a crush on him. The thought was ridiculous, although oddly… unsettling. 

Harry came to the conclusion that Malfoy was there on private, not public business. The amateur nature of his disguise suggested as much. Still, he could be building some kind of dossier on Harry, all the better to present a cast-iron case to the Ministry or the paper, but then again – and it saddened Harry to acknowledge it – who would listen to a Malfoy? There was not, and would never be, any statue to Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley.

Perhaps Malfoy wasn’t there for Harry at all. Maybe he was trying to impress a lover. A woman – a man? – who knew nothing of the world of magic but loved the world of magic tricks. Harry tried to imagine Malfoy with a lover. Someone to reach out and trace those narrow lips, touch a finger to that pointy nose, and feel the wiry hardness Harry had once felt wrapped around him on a broom.

~*~

_Every part of your act needs a story, a reason for your actions and misdirections; a reason for your audience to believe their lying eyes._

Harry ran his hand over his selection of Muggle magic tricks. He hadn’t admitted it at the time, but Hermione’s reaction to his disappearing coin trick had been disappointing. He’d been practising for a while now, and had hoped that he was getting better. 

Harry enjoyed the reactions from his audiences, enjoyed performing the magic. He trod a fine line each time, though, between filling people with wonder and catering to their need for it all to be a trick. A large part of this was having a routine that tied together, like little stories strung one after the other. The flowers were wrapped in gallant sweeps of his arm and a low bow; the juggling of balls was about excitement and the danger that maybe they would fall.

He picked up his balls, and threw them up into the air. One, two, three. He juggled them deftly, no magic needed to keep them aloft. This had been the first thing he’d mastered, long before he’d decided to learn magic the Muggle way. He let them drop onto the table, levitating them carefully with magic so they formed a neat column. Believably not-magic magic. 

Standing in front of his mirror, Harry pretended that he was performing this magic to an audience. To a man in a green coat. 

~*~

The fifth Thursday found Harry in a state of nervous apprehension. He didn’t relax until he saw the green coat amongst the monochrome sea of the audience. Whatever reason Malfoy had for returning, at least knowing he had come back was better than… what? Being forgotten? Harry wasn’t sure. 

Malfoy pretended to be someone else, as Harry pretended to perform not-magic. Harry liked the symmetry of it. Harry ran through his act with an immense feeling of satisfaction, and the certainty that he was good at this.

Only afterwards did Harry realise that he had been trying to impress Malfoy. Showing off. 

~*~

_Remember that confidence in front of an audience takes practice. Sometimes an audience takes its time to fall for the magic: how you behave can make all the difference._

On the sixth week, Harry checked for the green coat – locating it near the back to the right – then settled back into his show. He moved from one section to the next of his show, winking the balls out of existence after the juggling before moving onto the portion of the evening where he asked for an audience member to help. He half hoped that Malfoy would offer. Some kind of a confrontation, a meeting was called for, after all these weeks of hovering on the edge of Harry’s world. He would almost welcome threats of blackmail or discovery at this point; Harry had always found it easier to act than worry away in quiet.

After the show Harry felt loose-limbed and warm, as though he had run for hours or spent an afternoon in bed with an athletic and imaginative partner. The crowd had been particularly excitable and Harry had almost forgotten Malfoy as he elicited oohs and aahs from the Muggles. He stretched before opening the door onto the street, enjoying one last moment of languorous buzz before having to face the few stragglers who waited for him each night.

Between signatures and photographs, he scanned the area for any sign of Malfoy. Malfoy was clear to see, although he’d obviously tried to tuck himself in a corner, on the other side of the street.

As the small crowd thinned, then faded away, Malfoy remained in his corner, his not-quite-Malfoy face screwed up in thought. Harry smiled as all the strange theories he had come up with over the past few weeks spun through his mind.

Harry had so many questions, and he could only think of one way to answer them. Ignoring the sudden fear that maybe he was obsessing about a stranger who only reminded him of Malfoy, Harry decided that if Malfoy wouldn’t talk to Harry, Harry would talk to him.

Malfoy didn’t notice Harry approach until almost the last moment. His eyes widened in surprise – panic, perhaps – but his sharp chin held firm and he didn’t flinch.

“Hello,” Harry said. He left the word as neutral as possible, although what he wanted to ask was: “What are you doing here?”, “Why are you in disguise?”, “Why have you been to see my show six times?”, or even “How much do you want, then, to keep quiet about all this?” His hello meant other things, too, secret things, like “Do you remember the heat, the way you clung on, how close our bodies pressed?” Because Harry remembered. For some reason it was one of the things he remembered the most clearly about Malfoy.

“Hello.” Malfoy’s voice was low and uncertain. It sounded to Harry as though Malfoy had his own questions to ask.

“Did you—” Harry waved his hand in a vague manner. He wasn’t sure what he meant. See the show? Want a signature? Dwell too much on an adolescent fascination?

Malfoy looked around, and Harry realised that the two of them were quite alone. In the dark of the hushed London street, nothing quite felt real.

“No. I didn’t—”

Of course he didn’t. 

“Oh.” Harry’s chest felt tight. He didn’t want Malfoy to fade off into the night; he wanted Malfoy to feel the curiosity and connection like Harry did. Every time he’d seen that green coat in the audience, Harry had felt a leap of… something. Excitement? Hope? Interest? He wasn’t sure. But he’d been under the impression that surely Malfoy felt it, too. Why else turn up week after week? “I thought because you— never mind.”

“I what?”

And now Harry’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips as he tried to find the words. “I mean. You come to my show a lot.”

Malfoy shrank into himself, his head lowering and his arms wrapping around himself. Harry began to panic; he’d ruined whatever this moment was. It had felt like… like a beginning, almost. Malfoy raised his head, and for a moment seemed as though he was going to speak, but then he was staring at the ground again.

A bus rumbled past in the distance, and the animated rise and fall of voices and footsteps passed to one side.

“I like magic,” Malfoy said, his voice quiet as his eyes met Harry’s.

A laugh threatened to burst out at Malfoy’s words. Harry smiled as his chest loosened a little. “I bet you do.”

“I do. It’s– it’s quite amazing, really.”

Harry’s smile broadened, even though he knew that already, and knew that Malfoy knew, too. There was more to Malfoy’s presence here than any love of magic. He folded his arms in challenge. “Well?”

“Well?”

Harry wanted to see how far he could push Malfoy. Towards what end, he wasn’t certain. “Aren’t you going to ask after all of my secrets, then?”

“Are you suggesting you’ll share them?”

The idea of sharing secrets was tempting. He wanted to find out why Malfoy had come here, week after week. In disguise like a spy, no less. He also wanted to find out if the slight tug of connection he felt in his gut when standing near Malfoy meant anything, too. “Join me for a drink, and we’ll see.”

“I’d love to,” Malfoy said. A smile lifted his face, and Harry decided that yes, this pull and this coil of interest, was worth investigating further.

“Excellent! I’m Harry.” 

Malfoy didn’t react, because, of course he already knew Harry’s name. Harry held out his hand, aware that many years before it had been Malfoy who’d held out a hand.

“I’m—” What story would Malfoy tell, to explain his disguise? Harry was amused to see the hesitation as Malfoy cast about for a name. “I’m Andrew.”

“Good to meet you.” They shook hands, Malfoy’s skin hot: exactly as Harry remembered. 

~*~

Malfoy didn’t quite look like himself – his colouring was too dark, and the freckles were most disconcerting – but even in the dim light of the pub, Harry could see the sharpness of his features. Malfoy swept his hair away from his eyes in a gesture that brought back memories of foul-smelling cauldrons, the scratch of quills on parchment, and mountains of bacon and eggs for breakfast.

“I’m in my second year at Uni. It’s fun, so far.”

Harry hummed and nodded. He’d recognised kernels of truth hidden amongst Malfoy’s backstory, but Malfoy had this whole elaborate tale of Muggle life that was actually quite impressive. He must have spent ages getting the details right. Maybe he wasn’t such a terrible spy after all.

“But that’s enough about me. How about you? Why magic?” Malfoy had a gleam in his eye as he asked his question, and Harry felt again the tingle of being watched. Except this time, Malfoy wasn’t a green dot in the crowd. This time, he was sitting close enough that Harry could feel the heat of one knee resting against his leg.

Ignoring the warmth of the contact, Harry cleared his throat. “Why magic? I suppose it comes down to the first time I ever saw magic being performed.”

Harry told Malfoy of the wonder of that first moment. With Malfoy disguised as ‘Andrew’, Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to break the story he told; yet he knew that there was enough woven through that Malfoy would recognise. “I practised throughout my teenage years. I was lucky enough to go to a school where such interests were encouraged. Nurtured, even.” Harry smiled. His memories of Hogwarts, despite the darker times he’d experienced at the school, were predominately happy ones. Roaming the halls with Ron and Hermione, mastering Transfiguration and Charms, moving staircases; finally feeling that he belonged. And everywhere he looked, magic.

A particularly loud roar of laughter from the table behind them broke through Harry’s reverie. Malfoy was looking at him through narrowed eyes. He seemed to be hanging on Harry’s every word, although surely none of what Harry had to say was new to him. The warmth of the knee, the keenness of the regard, it all became too much for Harry, and he stood up. “Another drink?” he said, nodding at Malfoy’s nearly-empty glass. Before Malfoy could answer or even nod, Harry had set off for the bar.

He didn’t have long to wait to be served, but it gave Harry enough time to clear his head a little. What was he doing here? Because sitting in a pub, exchanging stories and enjoying the ‘accidental’ press of legs felt awfully like Harry was trying to pull. Or Malfoy was. He dared a glance back at Malfoy-Andrew. From the back, the hair was wrong. Everything else was right. Deliciously so: long, lean back, hair slightly tousled, and skin beginning to pink up from the booze. Harry could see it on his neck, which looked warm and inviting.

The tug in his gut was still there, but seemed to have extended out to a warmth in his groin. Malfoy – Draco? – was damned arousing with his intense stares and obvious interest in Harry. But was it _that_ kind of interest? And how the fuck did a tendency to assume that Malfoy was always up to no good at school translate into this desire to reach out and touch him?

As they drank up their second, then third drinks, Malfoy began to relax. His shoulders seemed looser, and as he talked, he nearly knocked Harry’s drink over with a particularly enthusiastic gesture as he told a story about turning all his washing pink. Harry was entranced. Who was this man, who talked with confidence of a Muggle life? And yet amongst the Muggle tales were small details that made this unmistakeably Draco Malfoy, not Andrew-the-Muggle. An emphasis on some words, as though they were foreign; the secret smiles at Harry’s coded mentions of magic, real magic. His accent also stood out in the pub, the elongated vowels and slightly clipped words adding an odd emphasis to some quite pedestrian stories.

Mostly, though, Harry was fascinated by Malfoy’s mannerisms. Memories rose unbidden, of flying for the Snitch and following Malfoy’s dot through dark corridors. The sight of firm muscles in Malfoy’s scrawny arms, though, reminded Harry that Malfoy was no longer a boy. He moved with a feral confidence now, as though he’d fought for it. Harry wanted to see what else Malfoy would do with that confidence. Would he kiss like that, too?

The walk home seemed inevitable. They bumped into each other – shoulders, arms, fingers – more times than strictly necessary. Harry knew it was only a matter of time before those touches grew more deliberate. How long would Malfoy keep up the pretence? How far would they go? He wasn’t sure if he cared whether it was Malfoy or Draco or Andrew, as long as those long fingers found their way under his clothes, and soon.

When they got to the front door, Harry stopped. Under the yellow of the street light, Malfoy’s hair could almost have been white-blond.

“Come up,” Harry said, his fingers resting on Malfoy’s wrist, and his tongue darting out to moisten his lips in anticipation.

“I– yes.” Uncertainty and drink and lust all lurked beneath Malfoy’s words. Harry suspected that Malfoy hadn’t yet noticed the lust; he seemed a little lost. And yet Harry saw the way Malfoy’s eyes had traced the path of Harry’s tongue, and the way he had not moved his arm away from Harry’s touch.

As soon as Harry had unlocked the door he pushed Malfoy into his flat, and up against the wall. The hallway was dark, but Harry could see clearly the blushing skin at Malfoy’s neck and the slight parting of Malfoy’s lips. He paused with his mouth nearly over Malfoy’s, waiting to be pushed away, but instead Malfoy’s hand came up to touch Harry on the back.

Malfoy’s breath was hot against Harry’s mouth; hot and harsh and uneven. His lips tasted of beer and salt, but they weren’t enough. Harry kissed Malfoy with the recklessness of four drinks, with the wound-up tension of six weeks of glimpses; with the strange sense of connection borne from years of suspicion and secretive stalking.

Kissing Malfoy was like performing magic. Not Muggle magic, or the everyday magic he’d learnt at Hogwarts: more the sigh of amazement that would sweep through the audience at the unexplainable. Malfoy kissed with sloppy hunger, and Harry couldn’t get enough of it.

They were both definitely wearing too many clothes. Malfoy’s coat masked the hard body Harry remembered pressed against his own. When Harry managed to get his hand under the heavy wool, he almost groaned at the feel of Malfoy’s back, firm and hot to touch even beneath his shirt.

Harry pulled Malfoy to the bedroom, kissing as he did so; eager to know Malfoy’s mouth better. And the rest of him. The coat was soon removed and flung over Harry’s dresser; he didn’t remember removing his own, but it lay tossed to one side as they kissed and pushed and pulled, as though reliving every fight from their school days. Harry dragged – almost wrestled – Malfoy onto the bed. Long fingers ran over Harry’s skin, round to the back of his neck, and pulled him in again for another kiss.

Harry wanted this, but he wasn’t sure quite _who_ he was about to go to bed with. He broke their kiss and began to tug at the buttons of his own shirt. Surely if they were naked, skin to skin, it wouldn’t matter what name Malfoy was using.

Did Malfoy know that Harry wanted him? That the name didn’t matter as much as the heat between them, the need to get off, to work off the tension of Malfoy’s presense, all these weeks? Harry clutched the back of Malfoy’s shirt – dammit, why was the stupid thing still on? – as he pushed their crotches together again. A spring deep in the bed creaked, their weight shifting together as Harry’s movements grew more urgent. Malfoy made a small sound, a moan and Harry felt it all the way to his cock and his balls. He knew, with absolute clarity, that he wanted to feel it inside of him, too.

“Fuck me– oh, god, please fuck me—”

Harry grabbed Malfoy’s arse, trying to ease his need for _more_ by rubbing his own engorged and trapped dick shamelessly into the hard rise of Malfoy’s cock.

The bed creaked softly as they began to move in an unmistakable rhythm; if they kept this up, Harry would be coming very soon. Malfoy kissed him again, kissed him as if eating him up entirely, and Harry knew that he wanted more than a quick fuck or, worse still, to finish here and now. Harry needed to be fucked deep and slow and fast and hard. Nothing else would do.

Harry wanted to believe that he didn’t care if Malfoy or Andrew fucked him, that all he wanted was release of being fucked. But deep down, he didn’t think of Malfoy as ‘Andrew’. Not once. He wanted Malfoy to be the one who fucked him, not any stupid disguise. Prickly Malfoy, who had been a bastard at school and who had been so lost during the war. Posh, bad-at-disguising-himself Malfoy, who managed not to mangle Muggle words and who liked to point his green collars up.

His throat was tight as he begged, again, “Please, fuck me, Andrew.” The name seemed alien to him, as wrong as the sandy hair and freckled nose. He wanted this – fuck, he really did, whatever his intentions had been at the start – but he hated Malfoy, too, for hiding behind a fake name and face.

Harry pulled Malfoy to him again for another kiss. With his eyes closed, ‘Andrew’ ceased to exist. Malfoy kissed back, sucking on Harry’s mouth as though he wanted to feel, not see, too. Harry slid a finger between the buttons of Malfoy’s shirt, then tried to unbutton the ones nearest to hand, never breaking off the kiss.

Malfoy pulled away, his face red and his lips slick. “I’m so sorry,” he said, then moved back until he was almost at the edge of Harry’s bed. “I’m so sorry, Harry, but– we can’t. I can’t.”

Harry’s heart was still racing, his cock still pressing painfully against the confines of his pants. It took a few moments to catch up with Malfoy’s words. “Why not?”

“I’m– I’m not—” Malfoy paused. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Harry rather suspected that Malfoy was _exactly_ who Harry thought he was. The tightness he’d felt, in his chest, in his throat, eased. As a sense of lightness welled up in Harry, he couldn’t help grinning at the idea that Malfoy had thought he’d be able to disguise his… _Malfoy-ness_. “And who are you, then?”

Malfoy moved to where his coat was thrown across the dresser, giving Harry a pleasant chance to watch his tight high arse move as he walked. With a sigh, Malfoy pulled his wand from his coat, and began to remove the glamours on his hair, face and skin. Relief mingled with an electrifying excitement as Harry watched Malfoy’s hair and skin lighten, and in the reflection of the mirror on the wall, his nose return to its normal shape. Harry felt light, buoyed by the fact that now he really did have Draco Malfoy in his bedroom. And with any luck, would have him in his bed, too.

He took his time to appreciate the differences between Andrew and Malfoy, and the ways that Malfoy had changed since they were at school. Some of it had been clear even while disguised – the length of Malfoy’s back, the way he had become a lean man rather than a weak boy – but other details only emerged once all the details of Malfoy’s face were back in place.

“You aren’t– you don’t seem surprised,” Malfoy said.

“I’m not.”

“And… why is that, exactly?”

“You’re a much worse spy than you think you are.” Harry laughed.

Harry’s smile didn’t fade when Malfoy huffed and folded his arms, because he didn’t for one minute believe that Malfoy was going to leave. Harry watched Malfoy’s pale fingers tremble as he rebuttoned his shirt, hiding the glimpse of skin that Harry longed to explore further. With his tongue, preferably.

He leant back to appreciate the sight of Malfoy’s ruffled state. His hair was still deliciously awry, and his skin – now returned to its natural hue – was blushing rather marvellously. Sharp desire mixed with amusement as Harry explained that to Malfoy that his coat, face shape, and voice had all been distinctive.

“You knew it was me all along.” Malfoy’s face creased into a confused frown.

“Yes, I was just waiting for you to admit it.”

Malfoy gasped. “Was that– is that why you were doing all that snogging? Were you trying to– to out-sneak me?”

“’Out-sneak’ you?” Laughter bubbled up at the absurdity of the idea. Malfoy’s lips were still shiny and slightly swollen from all the kissing. “I don’t know what you mean, saying I was doing all that snogging. You were definitely doing at least some of it.”

Harry watched Malfoy’s eyes flick down to Harry’s body, to the hard bulge at his crotch. Oh yes, Malfoy was definitely still interested. Malfoy dragged his eyes back up. “You knew I was me because I kept coming back?” Malfoy said. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You’ve always been obsessed with me.”

“Excuse me, Potter, I believe it was you who followed me around constantly—”

Memories of Malfoy’s name curling beside a moving dot on the Marauder’s Map jostled with those of seeking out a green coat in the crowd, night after night. “All right, maybe I’ve been a bit obsessed with you as well.”

This exchange felt warm and familiar, a softer version of the old rivalry between them. Harry didn’t really pay much attention to the words; instead, he noticed the way that Malfoy’s cheekbones were sharp enough to almost cast their own shadows. Malfoy had always been so obviously himself, even in disguise. Harry rose from the bed and crossed the room to tell Malfoy. His cheekbones, his voice: those were the parts to disguise.

A strange feeling had settled across the room. The moment seemed poised between two possibilities, one involving snogging, and the other far lonelier. Harry froze, wanting to reach out and touch Malfoy, to tear the clothes off his body, but instead he talked on about Malfoy’s Muggle story. This was no one night stand, no quick fuck. It didn’t have to be. He knew it was crazy, but he imagined it could be… more. Meeting-friends-and-family type of more. Harry’s ideas ran away from him. Mostly, it could be someone who understood what it was to straddle these two worlds. That the person Harry imagined this all with could be Malfoy was odd, yet at the same time made sense.

Malfoy’s words slowly filtered through to Harry’s brain. The elaborate backstory about university and Muggle flatmates was, according to Malfoy, all true. All the thoughts and questions in Harry’s mind were silenced by the sudden realisation that perhaps this was about more than just snogging.

“I wanted to learn,” Malfoy said, a wary light in his eyes. He looked… scared. Was he worried about what Harry would think of his desire to learn? Harry wanted to understand why Malfoy was living like a Muggle. No, that wasn’t it at all. He wanted to know why Malfoy was _there_ , in Harry’s room.

“About English literature,” Harry offered, although he wasn’t asking about books or reading at all.

“And the rest.” Malfoy wouldn’t say the words, but Harry saw them anyway. He saw Malfoy’s need to learn about how the world worked, away from the rules and explanations and expectations with which he’d grown up. He saw how Malfoy needed to find his own way in the world.

Harry nodded, because he needed the same. “All of it.” How to live a life truly his own; how to know what he really wanted.

“Yes.”

“And you’re learning?”

“Every day.”

Warmth filled Harry. “So am I.”

“Did you really—” Malfoy cleared his throat, and the obvious doubt in his voice filled Harry with a nameless fear. “Did you really want to fuck?”

The world slowed down to a single, filthy, word on Malfoy’s lips. Harry smiled, because yes, that was exactly what he’d wanted; and yet no, it had never crossed his mind before Malfoy had appeared at his magic show. “It wasn’t the original plan, no.” Malfoy’s face fell. “I was expecting you to blackmail me,” Harry said, remembering the tendrils of fear that he’d lived with for the first few weeks, “not to flirt with me.”

“I wasn’t flirting, I was questioning.” Malfoy’s face turned pink with indignation. Harry wanted to kiss him again. He wanted to do more than kiss.

“You were flirting.”

“ _You_ were flirting,” Malfoy said, his eyes bright and a smile dancing at the edge of his lips. Yes, Harry wanted to kiss him and take his clothes off and feel Malfoy’s hands on his body. He wanted it very badly indeed.

Harry licked his lips. “Yeah, I was.” Malfoy’s eyelids flickered and his lips parted slightly as he inhaled shakily before speaking.

“Because you’re obsessed with me.”

Harry nodded. Obsession, the perfect word to describe this… dance, between the two of them. “No more than you are with me.”

“I’m not obsessed with—”

“You paid for my show six times.”

“Well, yes.”

“You’re not claiming you came for the _magic_ , are you?”

“No,” Malfoy said. He appeared to be mesmerised by Harry’s eyes because although he was standing near enough that Harry could feel the edge of his breath, he kept up his intense gaze. Malfoy’s eyes looked filled with light; their pale grey seemed to trap it.

“You didn’t come so you could report me, either. I thought, maybe—but you could have reported me after the first time, and you didn’t.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I came because I wanted to understand why you did it.”

“Why I—?”

“Why you’re pretending to be a Muggle magician! Why you’ve been missing for years, and when I happen upon you, it turns out you’re performing real magic for Muggles and passing it off as illusion!”

“I suppose I wanted to find myself,” Harry said, wincing internally at how pathetic the words sounded. He wanted to express that sense of learning that Malfoy had hinted at earlier. “Or some cliché along those lines.”

“And you thought you might be hiding in a top hat?”

Harry was rather fond of his top hat, and hiding. He smiled at Malfoy’s comment, but tried to answer the question properly. “I mean, that’s why I—left. I didn’t think any of the options I had were right for me, so I selected ‘none of the above’, I suppose. If that makes any sense.”

Malfoy nodded slowly.

“As for the magic, well. I’ve always loved it, ever since the first time I knew it was real. That was true, when I said that before. And I suppose I—it feels really nice to share it with people. Even if they don’t think it’s real. I can always see that look of wonder in their eyes, that same wonder I experienced when I was eleven, and—it feels good. I dunno. I like it. I like it a lot. For a little while there I wasn’t sure there was anything I liked any more, and then there it was.”

Wrapped up in the memory of flying letters and a stream of red and gold sparks, Harry didn’t notice Malfoy stepping forward until they were pressed up against each other once more, and Malfoy was kissing him with as much wonder as Harry had ever found in magic.

~*~

_You will know when you’ve achieved the greatest magic of all: making an audience truly delight in the wonder of your show. True magic lies in a shocked gasp and the rueful shake of a head._

Rain battered the window, almost hiding the grey sky beyond. Harry, however, walked with a bounce in his step. He glanced over to where Draco was sitting, fingers curled around a steaming cup of coffee. Already he looked at home in Harry’s little kitchen.

“Are you always this noisy in the morning?” Draco asked, without looking up.

“Yes.” Harry began to whistle. And why shouldn’t he feel good? His body ached with the memory of a good night – a great night – with Draco. Not Malfoy, not Andrew: Draco. The name still felt strangely odd on his lips considering he’d thought of Malfoy as Draco for years. After all, faced with Fiendfyre, Harry had saved Draco, not Malfoy.

Draco sighed and put his drink down, and pulled Harry to him with still-hot fingers. “It’s lucky you have other redeeming features.”

“Oh, yes?”

His fingers found their way to the skin under Harry’s t-shirt, and then tugged on the band of Harry’s boxers. Draco dipped lower, his fingers brushing the top of Harry’s cock.

“I think so.”

Draco’s mouth was hotter even than his fingers as he kissed Harry on the line of skin revealed between t-shirt and boxer shorts.

Before Draco’s mouth could descend any lower, the toaster in the corner popped.

“Oh good, I’m famished.” Draco got up and set about making a plate of toast. Harry and the slightly obvious tent in his boxers would rather Draco had settled on something else entirely for breakfast. But then his own stomach grumbled.

“Are you making some for me, too?”

Draco nodded, and his hand paused in spreading butter. “I see this as refuelling,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Later, once they’d been back to bed and Draco had finished what he’d started in the kitchen, and once they’d showered together and Harry had returned the favour, they sat in Harry’s living room.

“You’ve got a lot of books on Muggle magic,” Draco said. “Why bother, when you don’t actually do any?”

“It’s interesting.”

Draco snorted.

Harry shook his head. “I need to know what it is I’m faking. Sometimes I get Muggle magicians in the audience.” He suspected that he and Draco saw magic rather differently to one another. “Is magic mundane to you? You know, warming charms and Vanishing spilt tea, that kind of thing.”

Draco drew himself up a little. “Magic is never mundane, it’s what makes us special.”

“You say that, but you would always look so bored during my magic show.”

“Because it’s first-year magic. Now, if you had done a really fancy piece of Transfiguration, I might have taken notice.”

“You probably would have broken your ‘disguise’ to criticise me for not getting some detail right.”

Draco scowled at Harry’s reminder about the quality of his glamours. He stuck his chin up in defiance. “It’s not my fault you can be a little sloppy with your wand work.”

“Rubbish!”

“You can’t fool me, I knew you at school, remember?”

Harry grinned. “And who ever thought we’d end up here?” He rested a hand on Draco’s knee and squeezed. “Anyway, like you said, it’s all first-year magic. Basic, right? Yet those Muggles ooh and ahh; for me, _that_ reaction is magic.”

“I was right, then.”

“Right?”

“When I thought you were an attention-seeking show off at school.” Laughter hid in Draco’s words, and he stroked Harry’s hand with his thumb. “I bet you love that statue in Diagon Alley.”

Harry groaned. “You’ve seen it?”

“ _Everyone’s_ seen it, Harry.”

The day was still grey, but Harry’s living room seemed light with the new addition of Draco Malfoy sitting in it, smiling and teasing. In bed he’d taken control with Harry in a way that few wizards had been willing to do: he really didn’t care about the whole Chosen One crap.

“I want to show you something,” Harry said shyly.

“I think I’ve already seen it.”

“Not that, you arsehole—”

“I’ve seen that, too.”

Harry pushed Draco’s hand away. “No, I’m serious.” He moved to where his dinner jacket was hanging on the back of the door. “I want to do some magic for you. I– I’ve been working on something. I was going to show Ron and Hermione first, but now that you’re here—”

Draco sighed. “Get on with it, then. Although you do know that I’ve seen your act a few times now.”

Harry nodded. “I know. But this is different.” He gathered his box of tricks, and began the set he’d been practising for the past few weeks.

He pulled Draco’s card from his ear; he linked and unlinked rings; he levitated a pen; and he produced a string of silk handkerchiefs from his hat. Some of the tricks were childish in their simplicity, but Harry continued through them all with increasing confidence as Draco’s fidgeting grew less, and his face crumpled into frowns and opened into smiles. By the time he finished, Draco was sitting with his mouth partly open and a slight flush on his cheeks.

“You didn’t use magic,” Draco stated.

“I didn’t.”

“And yet… how did you do that? How did you know that was my card, and where did that coin go? How did you make those handkerchiefs disappear? How did you make that pen float without magic? How did you—”

“Magic,” said Harry. “Muggle magic.”

“I…” Draco rubbed his hand over his chin, then shook his head. He stood, and came to stand by Harry. “It was fantastic.” He wrapped his arm around Harry, and pulled Harry close for a kiss. “It does rather confirm that you are an absolute show off.”

Perhaps, Harry thought as he returned Draco’s kiss with gusto, he should branch out into Muggle shows for wizards. Everyone deserved to know the wonder of magic, even those who’d been performing it all their lives.

_The end_

**Author's Note:**

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